


Against the Dying of the Light

by ninaunn



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, F/F, The Reaper War, spec recs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-08 20:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninaunn/pseuds/ninaunn
Summary: “Do you know what it’s like to think you’re alone and then find out you’re not?”She’d thrown the words at Shepard, heart singing to see the shutter close behind those onyx eyes. She’d taken it as a victory; first blood in this wretched gladiator match the Commander seemed intent on having with her.It was a mistake. A miscalculation. It had not been a retreat or a war wound





	Against the Dying of the Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoddessTiera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessTiera/gifts).



_curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray  
do not go gentle into that good night_

.

.

 

_rage_

When Jack finally decided to stop pissing about, it felt a bit like vertigo. The sort that came on when gravity went tits up in a shuttle barrel-rolling through an explosion or five. All in and fuck the collateral, like it always had been. All she could do was hang onto her straps and pray the whip-crack choice would see her alive the other end.

That kind of ruthless, quick-thinking had kept Jack alive up to this moment. Snap decisions, all of them that could have seen her dead. Had gotten her both in and out of trouble more than once. She was still in one piece, more or less.

Now though, a treacherous thought sneered that maybe Jack had gotten a bit more than she had bargained for with Commander Fucking Shepard.

The toe of one boot tapped against the floor grating, and Jack sucked her teeth at what the tic betrayed. She did not want to think about what waited for her on the other side of the elevator door. Of the tremor in her hands and small flutter of wings beneath her scarred and jagged heart. Thinking of those things would only see her falter.

_“Do you know what it’s like to think you’re alone and then find out you’re not?”_

She’d thrown the words at Shepard, heart singing to see the shutter close behind those onyx eyes. She’d taken it as a victory; first blood in this wretched gladiator match the Commander seemed intent on having with her.

It was a mistake. A miscalculation. It had not been a retreat or a war wound.

Fucking Alliance Girl Scout and her fucking empathy.

Jack had kept waiting for the trap to trigger, for iron teeth sunk into her flesh and tearing all the rough stitching she worked so hard at to tether herself together with. It would have felt more honest, Jack had decided, if Shepard had come at her with threats and blackmail. At least it would have been familiar ground.

Shepard-

Shepard just kept pushing. Except when she didn’t. 

Early on, back when the lines were still being drawn, Jack had bared her teeth to show Shepard the cut of them. She’d wanted clarification, to reveal the hidden knife she was sure was there. And if it turned out that all Shepard wanted was to screw around, they could just get it done just fine without all the fraught emotion crap. 

She hadn’t expected Shepard’s cheeks to flush dark under her freckles.

“That’s not what I want,” Shepard had said with a strangled bark of laughter, rough but toothless. Her black gaze had flicked away.

So Jack had pushed back. Grabbed the Girl Scout buy her biceps and pushed her against a wall and sneered. Leaned close enough to feel Shepard’s hitched breath on her cheek.

“You sure about that?”

But Shepard had been rigid and unyielding. Hadn’t flinched an inch, or bent towards her or leered down her front. It was, at once, both what Jack had expected of the soldier and also the last thing. But her face had been blank, reflective, and that had been the most unsettling thing of all.

Another miscalculation. Jack had released and backed up with a curse and sent Shepard on her way.

The fucked up thing was that Shepard had still stopped by, like a wind-up toy, to check up after every mission. Still acted like she gave a damn, asked her stupid questions and acted as if Jack hadn’t done a shitty thing to provoke a reaction. Acted like she cared until Jack had caved and told her about Pragia.

And goddamn Shepard had the nerve to promise to help, and then pull through with it.

It wasn’t normal. 

The elevator was taking far too long. It left Jack alone with her troublesome thoughts, and she wondered snidely if those dicks at Cerberus had designed it so deliberately. 

She let out a long breath, and tried not to think of the way the end of Shepard’s hair curled under her ears. How she rubbed at the non-existent scars on her face and elbow.

_“I’ve made a lot of hard choices. Learned what to let go.”_

Jack had read the files. Had trawled through the extranet for every last article on the Alliance’s wonder-child. About the tragedy of Mindoir. Akuze. She hated that Shepard might know what she was talking about.

And now the Normandy was parked right outside the Omega-4 Relay’s front door; those Collector shits and fuck knew what else waiting on the other side. Jack was bursting at the seams from agitation, worry and some other terrible, unnameable thing, and the fucking elevator would not just _hurry up already._

For all her pissing around, Jack had somehow managed to retain the Commander’s regard. Fucked if she knew how; any sane person would have fled to the hills by now. Maybe cosied it up with the Cheerleader in her prim little office, but Shepard kept pushing. Kept caring and it was weird and Jack-

Jack liked it. Wanted it.

Fuck.

The elevator jolted to a halt, and the door slid open. A bolt of panic shot through her chest, gone as quickly as it had come, leaving only trembling fingers. Jack shot out of that steel box in an instant, determined to stride up to the cabin door and barge into Shepard’s space and-

Her footfalls faltered.

Jack had never faltered. Not since Pragia. 

She would not falter now. The door hissed open and Jack stormed in.

Of course Shepard was pacing her cabin, datapad in hand and lit up like a halo from its orange light.

“Shepard.” Her name almost hurt to say, stuck with so many things in Jack’s throat.

Shepard blinked at her brash entrance; tilted her head to the side like she was trying to recognise a song.

“I wasn’t expecting you, Jack,” she acknowledged, and it wasn’t fair how rough and relieved her voice sounded.

Jack didn’t stop until they were half a step apart, and it seemed far too close. Knots twisted against themselves in her gut and everything felt so hard. Goddamn the heat at her eyes and the hesitation on her tongue; Jack was not meant to weak and afraid. Not like this.

But Shepard was there, and waiting. Mouth in a careful line and that small furrow in her brow that spoke focus.

“I was thinking about you and…” The words were not easy. Jack had not second guessed herself in a long time. “And maybe you’re right. That I need-”

And it was too much.

Jack was not brave or courageous; she was a raging, psychotic bitch and she should have known better then to try her hand a being gentle. Tender. Her heel took half a step away and Jack could not bear to look at Shepard. Surely there would be pity and condescending concern, and Shepard would see past this madness. 

“It’s alright.” Fingertips, rough with callouses, brushed her chin and turned her head. Shepard’s expression looked like the freaking Madonna. “No more questions.”

It wasn’t fair. Jack should not be fraying at the edges because of some suicide mission, and Shepard should not be there to hold her together. It wasn’t fair of Shepard to make her this vulnerable. It was wrong. It would go wrong. 

She’d warned her to stay away, that feelings were dangerous and would cause damage. She’d told her.

But Shepard’s large arms around her were solid and sure and Jack pressed her nose into her collarbone and tried not to think of the kohl likely staining her cheeks. Cheap soap clung to Shepard’s skin, and Jack felt broad shoulders shift under her unsteady palms.

There weren’t words to cover the uncertainty and fear and thrill that leapt jagged through Jack’s veins. She pressed her teeth to Shepard’s pulse point, felt the thrum of her warmth and life against her lips and savoured the small hiss that escaped her soldiers’ composure. Maybe Jack would get ink for this moment, if she made it out of tomorrow alive.

For her nosy pushing, Shepard sure as hell left it to Jack to make it across that final line.

She broke the line.

It tasted like victory on her tongue.

.

.

_rage_

There were some nights where even Purgatory couldn’t drum up enough noise to keep the war at bay. When the crowd was sparse, twitchy like a nun in a brothel and eyeing the blast marks still visible on the walls. Jack had known that tonight was one of those night the moment she looked up from mission reports to see a blade-faced Commander Shepard marching her way past narrow-eyed patrons.

A part of her could not fathom the sheer fucking gall of Cerberus; attacking the Citadel with Reapers running from system to system. Jack had always known they were a bunch of sadistic lunatics, she just hadn’t realised they were that fucking stupid. 

Neon lights flashed as yet another beat dropped. Shepard’s shoulders were stiff, her eyes like coins as they mirrored every movement observed. Jack took a gulp from her bourbon and waited for the storm to hit.

“You look like a thresher maw chewed you up and shat you out the other end,” Jack said as her girlfriend slid into the booth beside her.

Shepard did not lightly kiss her cheek, or grin trouble or sidle a hand up to pinch her side. She didn’t even shoot back a quick retort, and fuck knew she always had one ready. Instead, Shepard leaned over and placed her square-tipped fingers over Jack’s drink. 

“Hey!” The protest was automatic; Jack almost flinched into fight from muscle memory alone, but it was too late. Shepard had already tipped her head back and downed the cheap, smoky liquor. 

“I’ll get you another,” Shepard said, all even and calm even as her reflective onyx gaze sent shivers down Jack’s spine. And not the good kind, either. 

Well, maybe a little of the good kind. That look made her want to squirm and sigh and do all sorts of nasty things to the Alliance’s darling.

Too late for fun ideas, though; Shepard was already up and stalking the bar.

Jack felt her knuckles pop, and fought to keep her heel from bouncing. Synth rebounded around her ears, but Shepard’s silence had cut through all the noise like a fine blade. Even now, people made way for her. 

It wasn’t that Jack hadn’t seen Shepard under pressure before. Stressed, anxious, angry, all those things and fuck knew what else but this was something different. This was bone breaking through the skin of your knuckles in a bar-fight. The twitch in in your trigger-finger when mercy was on the line. 

Shepard had taught her about second chances, given or taken or otherwise. As the soldier set two glasses of amber alcohol on the sticky table, her thumb pressed against the rim, Jack wondered if it was a second chance squandered that set her mouth pressed so thin. Waiting for a cut, she thought, making room for Shepard to sit in the booth. 

“I just came from Huerta Memorial Hospital.” The long line of her throat bobbed as Shepard threw back another gulp. “Krios is dead.”

Jack blinked, and looked at the tight lines pulling at Shepard’s hooded eyes.

“Fuck.” She shot another glance at her girl and took her own mouthful. “I’d heard he was hurt bad in the attack but…damn.”

“Another thing Cerberus has to account for,” Shepard agreed grimly. 

“Yeah, add it to the tally.” Jack curled the fingers of one hand, trying to let it rest quiet on her thigh. No need to tear up this poxy club, not now. Her skin felt tight. There was not enough pain in the entire goddamn galaxy to answer for all of Cerberus’s sins. 

Normally that feeling was enough for Jack to either start a brawl or get herself some new ink. Neither seemed appropriate; neither would help lift that heavy foreboding from Shepard’s expression. 

“Did his boy make it?” She almost didn’t want to ask.

Krios had been a mopey bastard, but he’d been smart enough to keep his nose clear of Jack’s business. Half decent with his biotics, reliable in a fight and hadn’t stabbed her in the back; Jack had made alliances on less. 

Shepard had liked him, though. She knew they’d talked a lot. 

“Kolyat?” Shepard mused into her glass. “He was there. Said a prayer.” 

Her composure faltered; for a moment her face was as cracked as when they’d first met. The ice in Shepard’s glass clinked, thick lashes fanned her cheek for an overlong downcast moment. Jack watched the muscles of her throat and jaw as Shepard visibly swallowed. 

Jack’s fingers tapped against her knee.

“Come on,” she declared, trying to sound cavalier and courageous and not quite achieving either. “Let’s bust this joint.”

Shepard shivered, lowered the glass from her lips and raised one thick brow. Disco lights danced over her skin.

“What?”

“This shit-hole place is too damn miserable for any kind of fun.” Jack finished her drink and then Shepard’s, slamming both glasses definitively onto the table. She tugged on the soldier’s sleeve. “Come on.”

Leading her out of Purgatory made all of Jack’s hackles rise; Shepard was no meek and mild child. Yet there was no resistance to her rough insistence, and Jack wondered where she’d found the will or patience for this kind of shit.

The light was little better outside the club, the air less stuffy; at least the Citadel’s night cycle was consistent. Jack wound her arm around Shepard’s and dragged her away from the dazed looking shits still looking for a good time.

She didn’t really have a destination in mind, but Jack knew the Commander. Knew she was all fire and duty and purpose. When those things began to rattle around with grief and guilt was where the danger of burnout flickered.

So, Jack marched Shepard over the picturesque walkways and bridges the Citadel was so good at. In the dark, the scorch marks were hardly even visible. Jack ran her mouth off about her kids, about Sanders and whatever else pissed her off about Alliance protocol. 

At some point, Shepard had lit herself a cigarette, and they paused to watch the shuttles scoot from ward to ward.

“Those little shits are getting mouthy too,” Jack sneered. Smiled. “Think they have the right to give me attitude just because they’ve managed not to get shot yet.”

She eyed the small glow of Shepard’s smoke, the huff that escaped her throat. Jack’s elbows rested on the railing, one leg crooked as the other bore her weight. Shepard still stood like a soldier, despite the cigarette hanging from her lips. The distant stare.

“I never got how you could put up with all our bullshit,” Jack mused, propping up her head with one hand. “All of us loose cannons on one ship and the Illusive Bastard breathing down your neck. Since taking on my students, I get it even less.”

A small huff sounded from her side, and Jack felt Shepard shift. Saw from the corner of eye one large hand rest lightly against the railing.

“You were a handful,” Shepard said quietly. “And all of you followed me into hell when I asked it.”

“We all had our reasons.”

“Yeah. Much good it did in the end.” Shepard exhaled, smoke escaping through her perfectly pursed lips. “First Mordin, now Thane. You better watch yourself, Jack.”

“You’re so full of shit, Shepard.” She jabbed Shepard’s side with her elbow; Jack had not time for whatever bullshit deflection her girlfriend was trying to pull.

The silence hung between them, familiar in its tension and patience. Though usually their roles were switched. They’d had so little time to shuffle towards anything remotely resembling normal. A part of Jack wondered how they would work outside the series of rescues that had so far built their relationship. 

She wanted to try. So much.

“I keep thinking it might be me.” Shepard’s voice was a quiet rasp. She flicked the ash off her cigarette, gaze locked on view in front of them.

“What?” Jack pushed herself to standing.

“I might have to make that choice,” Shepard continued. The corner of her mouth quirked. “Someone else would have gotten it wrong.”

“What kind of bullshit is that?” A boiling rage erupted from Jack’s belly, peeled her lips back in a snarl as fury flushed her blood hot.

“Aw Jack,” drawled the Commander, dragging a heart-breaking smile over her way. “You do care.”

“Fuck you,” Jack spat, shoving the soldier hard. She wanted to punch her in the face again, for all the good it would do. Besides, Shepard would likely let her, and that sucked away all the appeal.

Sick with anger, Jack threw up her hands and stomped away. 

It hadn’t been easy letting herself open up to someone riding around in a ship marked with a fucking giant Cerberus logo. Not in letting Shepard poke and prod at her wounds until she let herself listen and feel and trust. Jack didn’t scare easy.

And, goddammit, Shepard knew that! Knew that Jack wouldn’t blame her for the deaths under her watch, or heap all her hope of salvation on her shoulders. Knew that Jack cared. Fiercely and frighteningly. Didn’t she?

Jack glanced over her shoulder, saw Shepard standing still as a statue as she watched her cigarette burn.

Stupid Girl Scout and her hero complex and her piss weak attempts to let Jack down easy. 

_“You’re not getting rid of me that easy”_

Yeah, well, ditto right back.

Jaw clenched, Jack spun on her heel and stomped all the way back.

“No.”

Shepard looked up at the proclamation, almost surprised as Jack seized her lapels. Her girlfriend was almost a full head taller than her, but she didn’t have nearly as much spite and fury.

“No. Screw this, Shep.” Jack bared her teeth. Her knuckles were pale as Jack shook the despondent soldier. “You don’t get to piss off on you own mortality like that. You’re fucking Commander Shepard.”

Rocking back on her heels, the Commander’s gaze shuttered again to that reflective mirror that had unsettled Jack so. Or, tried to.

“I rather thought you were,” came the weak, cracked comeback.

Jack shook her again, fiercely, trying to rattle some sense into that dense brain. Shepard was so damn stupid at times.

“Shut the hell up,” she snapped, pulling Shepard in close so that their noses almost bumped. “I’m not done, and you’re not dying. Got it?”

A small sound, almost a hiccup, escaped from Shepard’s throat. The cigarette scent lingered on Shepard’s breath. In the dim light, her deep eyes searched Jack’s own; afraid and uncertain and a bunch of other things that made her own chest painfully tight. 

“Do you really want me making you a promise like that?” The uncertainty in Shepard’s voice told Jack all she needed to know.

It did not quell any of the anger still roiling inside her. If anything, it just made Jack angrier. 

Her eyes were hot because she was angry.

Because what wasn’t uncertain with the Reapers burning life from planet to planet? Jack’s life had never been certain. If Shepard thought that she’d be scared off by shitty odds on an ambiguous end, well, Jack had gambled with worse hands. 

“Does it matter?” Jack stuck out her chin in stubborn conviction. Watched that small furrow in Shepard’s brow deepen as she was pulled closer. “I’ll have the rest of my life to be pissed at you if you break it.”

“Jack…” 

Shepard was a maelstrom, a fucking hurricane built on duty and loss and she had never flinched at anything, including Jack’s shit. Jack wouldn’t let her flinch now, not like this. Not for her. There was a war to win, a fight to finish, and Jack knew Shepard would see it done. Would come back to her at its end. 

She shook Shepard again, or maybe her hands just trembled. Shepard’s palms were on her wrists, lips on her brow and Jack had squeezed her eyes shut lest they leaked.

“You’ll get it done,” she insisted, cursing her sorrow-thick throat. “And you’ll come back and we’ll fuck off on a bender that’ll put even an asari dancer to shame.”

A wet sniff sounded in one ear. Jack didn’t mind.

“Yeah,” Shepard mumbled, hands clumsy as they slid around Jack’s waist. “Yeah, that sounds great. It’s a date.”

It wasn’t much, nothing the vids would ever show, but this messy, muddled moment was theirs. A little victory only they would keep.

.

.

_rage_

She had always hated hospitals; becoming a good little Alliance bitch had not changed that about Jack.

Under paper-white blankets, Rodriguez twitched and whimpered in her sleep. Thick bandages were wrapped about the ensign’s head and eyes, her fingers were burned. Bellarmine, on the next bed over, was not much better. 

Jack chewed her bottom lip, watching her battered students like a coiled snake. Even at this hour, the halls were filled with frantic movement. Too much to do and too little space, Jack barely warranted a second glance in this aftermath.

She’d move on in a moment, to check the three boys the hospital had insisted stay overnight. Rodriguez was not sleeping well, and Jack wanted to make sure the nurses weren’t skimping on her morphine. Sure, resources were short, but that didn’t mean some smart-arse wouldn’t skim off the top to make a tidy sum on the side.

One whole week the Reapers had been gone, and Jack could not make sense of it.

Rodriguez sighed, and then sobbed, and Jack resisted to urge to put her fist through the wall.

She was no gentle mother here to sooth away nightmares, but her palms felt hot and her ribs felt tight as the ensign groaned in her sleep. It wasn’t right, hearing pain creak out of a kid like that. Knowing she had less than half a chance of ever seeing again.

Her crew had worked hard and they’d fought like demons even when all of Hammer looked to be going to shit.

Hell, Jack had the personal thanks of the turian captain whose platoon they’d stumbled across. Goddamn Prangley had taken on a Brute single-handed to save the damn buzzard. How her scrappy little bunch of biotics had managed to hold up under the sheer amount of damage that had been thrown their way was beyond comprehension. But they had, and Jack had commendations spilling out of her pockets.

Shepard would have laughed at that. 

Would laugh, once they found each other again.

Scrubbing her hands against her pants, Jack wondered how the ever-loving fuck she had gotten to this moment.

“They told me an angry looking punk was haunting B Ward,” a smug, sure voice called from behind her. “I just knew it was you.”

Jack snorted and turned on her heel.

Miranda Lawson stood in the hospital hall, hip jutted out and arms crossed. A doctor hurried by, leaving a wide berth between him and the two women eyeing each other up like dinner. The normally pristine uniform was dusty and worn, but barely a hair was out of place on her stupidly glossy head.

“Well, if it isn’t the Cheerleader herself,” came her snide retort, but the corner of her mouth twitched up.

“No need to get emotional on me.” Lawson’s boots clacked loudly on the linoleum floor. “I managed to liberate some optic-implant tech from an old Cerberus holdout. Figured they might be of use around here.”

Maybe she ought to be surprised, but Jack didn’t think she had it her to be phased by anything anymore. Or even annoyed that Lawson was sticking her pert little nose where it didn’t belong. Too much had happened to shit the small stuff. Too much was still lost in the rubble the Reapers had made, and she was so tired. 

At least the fuckers were now nothing more than scrap metal. Shepard had always been as good as her word.

Jack swallowed down the lump in her throat.

“At least you’re making yourself useful,” she scoffed. “If I’m not babysitting, I’m doing demo.” 

Lawson sighed, a sharp, mournful sound that sounded a hell of a lot more human then Jack had ever allowed herself to imagine the former Cerberus operative.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” the prodigy said, earnest and intent. “I know you’d rather be out there searching for the Normandy.”

Jack looked away. Tried to keep the scowl on her face fierce.

“My kids need me,” she croaked, throat tight. 

The whole galaxy stuck on what was left of Earth, and somehow Miranda was the one she was having this wretched conversation with. All the while, the answer to all her fears and uncertainties was either rattling about in a ship lost to that final, galaxy changing blast on the Citadel, or in the fucking ruin itself.

It made her skin crawl, made her want to scream.

“Words I never thought to hear from you.” Miranda tossed back her thick hair. Cool, confident, but Jack felt the weight of her pointed gaze. “Here.”

Orange light flickered as Lawson brought up her omni-tool, expanding her fingers out over the interface. A small buzz tickled Jack’s wrist, and she brought up her own to see what Lawson had sent her. 

“What is it?” Her heart beat against her ribs.

“It is almost embarrassingly easy to crack into Alliance intel these days.” Miranda’s tone was cocky. Guarded. “I…I thought you deserved to see this in person.”

Jack swallowed as she scrolled through mission reports, damage assessments and comm-transmissions. She knew what the final verdict would be; felt it in the dread drop of her belly. The rage-read-despair flaring at the base of her skull. 

The Normandy was MIA. Commander Shepard was MIA. Efforts to learn their statuses were underway but not top priority. Last known transmission of the Normandy suggested that the ship had been blasted through a Relay to God knew where. 

_“I envy your anger,”_ Shepard had said to her once. _“After Mindoir, all I felt was nothing. It didn’t seem right.”_

Her teeth ground together, and Jack swiped away the documents with a vicious hand. Heat stung under her eyes and there wasn’t enough walls in the whole damn city for her to punch. The fists her hands formed were hard and ready.

Lawson didn’t apologise or offer any consoling sentiments, and for that Jack was grateful. She might have torn Miranda’s face off if she’d tried.

“I gotta go,” Jack sucked her teeth, waving away Lawson’s cautious scrutiny. “See you around.”

Jack hated hospitals, but they were not hard places to navigate. She stalked the sterile halls like a war machine, ignoring the startled glances and skittering steps. The jacket on her back felt clumsy on her shoulders, and her boots far too light.

It was goddamn Mertoc and his stupid shuttle recording all over again.

Shepard had promised.

The exit door to the roof slammed open, and cold air hit Jack like a sledgehammer. It stung the tears on her cheeks. Numbed the biotic fire at her fingers and collar-bone. Above, the stars seemed so very cold and quiet.

It wasn’t fair.

It was always a possibility.

She’d known the moment that shimmering, shattering field had engulfed the sky in crimson that her girl had done it. That Shepard had managed to beat the odds again; saved the galaxy and put all the Girl Scouts, past and present, to shame. 

_“I love you too,”_ Shepard had said, and though the holo-vid connection had been bad, the words had run true.

But it hadn't been a goodbye.

Perhaps it had been stupid to think that she’d come out the other side alive; Jack had been so used to disappointment until Shepard had stormed into her life. 

Striding to the building’s edge, Jack gripped the icy cold railing with both hands and snarled at the empty sky. A fierce buzzing dug in at her temples and down her spine and fucking hell if Jack didn’t just want to tear the mother-fucking building down around her.

She could do it. She was the psychotic biotic after all.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.

And how dare the Alliance give up so easily on Shepard? The sheer, fucking nerve. It made her teeth sharp and her tongue taste blood and Jack’s fingers glittered blue as she held onto that railing for dear life. The broken shells of dead Reapers littered the horizon.

Fuck them. 

The war was over because of Shepard, and Jack refused to leave her buried in the ruin of the Citadel for fucking convenience. 

Already the rage had spun her mind into a snap decision; the sort that had gotten her both in and out of trouble more than once. A course of action that was half gamble, half hope that would certainly send her world spinning.

The kids were all right. Jack had dragged them through the war by the ears, but they were alive, and Sanders would see them looked after. Prangley, Rodriguez, Bellarmine and all the rest did not need her snarling over them like a she-wolf.

Jack had a few contacts in the Alliance. A few outside of it, too, and she was no stranger to acquiring transport through less than reputable means. The Citadel was not that far away, not anymore. It hung in the sky like a nightmare.

She would need a crew. Jack was almost certain she could drag Lawson along. If anyone could help put back whatever was left of Shepard, it was Miranda. Grunt would be on board like varren hunting pyjack. Zaeed too, if the old goat was still around. 

Tremors began at her shoulders, the back of her arms and knees. It was cold, but Jack was furious, and her fury now had direction.

“I’m coming for you,” Jack promised through gritted teeth. Tried not to think on how it felt to press her mouth to Shepard’s. The last last moment watching the Normandy together after a bender of a night.

Shepard had proven herself adept at doing the impossible. Now, Jack just had to prove she'd done it again.

All she could do was pull up her boot-straps and pray the whip-crack choice would see Shepard alive the other end.

.

.

_against the dying of the light_

**Author's Note:**

> Done as a part of the Spec Rec Rare Pair exchange for GoddessTiera.
> 
> I really loved writing this! It was a little hard trying to get into Jack's headspace; she's such a defensive, passionate character. The request was for some vulnerability from Jack, and I saw her as using rage as reflex to any vulnerable feeling on her part. I hope it rang true, the dynamic between her and a female Shepard was really interesting to write.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
